


winding roads, blinding lights

by lilabut



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 09:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10241990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: On the worst day of his life, Daryl meets a girl in the woods.





	1. because maybe

_and all the roads we have to walk are winding  
and all the lights that lead us there are blinding _

 

_because maybe  
you're gonna be the one that saves me_

 

Wonderwall, Oasis

 

The first time he sees her, he can barely make out her features through the veil of tears that clings to his blue eyes.

 

His lungs heave with each breath, his short legs burning because he ran so fast, so far. Still, it isn't far enough. The scent of smoke still clings thickly to the air, even this far away. Above him, beyond the canopy of trees, black clouds are soiling the powder blue sky.

 

He shivers despite the heat.

 

 _Are you okay?_ The sound of a soft voice startles him and he whips his head around, quickly wipes a few stray tears away with the back of his hand. It hardly makes a difference, not when they are pouring from his eyes like raindrops in a storm.

 

Surprise takes over grief for the briefest of moments when he sees a girl standing in the middle of the clearing he stumbled upon. Auburn curls framing her pale face, a white dress fluttering in the breeze, her bare feet digging into the rich grass, a bouquet of yellow wild flowers in her hand. She must be around his age.

 

In the light of the sunbeams that bathe her from above, she looks like one of them angels he saw in a story book at school once. The kind of book he wanted to read over and over again, no matter how long it took him with all them letters so hard to string together. But at home, he doesn't have books like that. Only a handful, torn and worn.

 

And now burned away to ash.

 

 _Are you okay?_ The girl repeats, taking a slow step towards him. He takes one step back in return, shaking his head, turning away, wiping desperately over his cheeks with the already damp back of his hand.

 

He wants to run again but he can't anymore, can barely hold himself up.

 

All he wants is to go home, for this to be one of the days that his momma is awake with her blue eyes clear, greeting him with bright pink lips curled into a smile and a warm meal on the table. Those days are rare, so rare and precious when usually she's passed out on her bed with wine staining her lips, and he never dares waking her to tell her he's hungry, makes himself a sandwich to eat alone in his room instead.

 

But today won't be one of those days.

 

There will never be another day like that. She's gone, burned away. Dead, that's what they all said before he broke through the wall of people narrowing in on him with looks of pity in their eyes. Before he ran away.

 

 _You shouldn't be out here all by yourself,_ the girl says softly. Her voice is closer now but still sounds far away, like an echo. Course he shouldn't be, and neither should she. Briefly, he wonders what she's doing out here all by herself in the first place, but what does he care? Ain't his business or his problem and he stubbornly keeps his back to her.

 

Doesn't want her to see him crying.

 

(weaklings cry. 's what daddy always says.

 

he'll be so angry at him for not being home today.)

 

 _We can walk back together if you want._ Her suggestion sounds as sweet as honey, warm like a fire crackling under the star-speckled sky.

 

He doesn't want her to walk him anywhere. Wants to be alone. It's why he ran away in the first place.

 

 _Go away!_ he spits, hating the sound of his voice – high pitched and muffled by sobs he tries to swallow.

 

After that, she doesn't say another word and the clearing is engulfed in silence except for his own ragged breathing and the chirping of the birds. When he turns around a minute later, she is gone. Nothing left behind but the bouquet of yellow flowers not a foot away from him on the ground.

 

 

 

He picks at them for hours until his eyes have run dry and the sky is burning red along with the sunset.

 

 

Until he hears voices in the distance, growing closer.

 

 

Until the Sheriff scoops him up in his arms like he weighs nothing (and he doesn't, is skinny as a stick, Merle's patched up and well worn clothes swallowing him whole). Telling him it'll be all right.

 

 

 

His momma's gone. How is anything ever gonna be all right again?

 

* * *

 

They move in with his uncle for a little while afterwards. Ain't got anywhere else to go.

 

 

 

It's not too bad. His uncle's girlfriend pours him cereal in the morning and sets a glass of orange juice next to the bowl, ruffles her long-nailed fingers through his hair. She always sighs, always looks at him like he's a sad story.

 

His uncle lets him watch TV sometimes. Cartoons and movies and whatever is on. Falls asleep on the leather couch that stinks of cold smoke and Daryl keeps watching and watching and watching, inhaling it all.

 

(at night, the nightmares come. flames engulf him, and his momma screams, flesh melting off her bones. that's what merle said happened, anyway.)

 

 

Merle's not around much, that hasn't changed. Comes and goes as he pleases. He's still tall and strong and all Daryl wishes he could be when all he is is small and weak. But Merle looks sad sometimes now.

 

His daddy doesn't talk to him. Doesn't look at him. Sometimes sits at the table with a beer and ignores him when he's in the room.

 

He doesn't look sad. Just angry.

 

 

 

They send him back to school a week later, and he looks for her there. For the girl he saw in the woods. Thinks he might have seen her before, that she looked familiar. But he can't find her anywhere.

 

* * *

 

For a little while after that, the other kids at school stop making fun of his ratty clothes and messy hair. They still stare at him, though, talk about him behind his back like somehow his mother's death made him even weirder than he was before.

 

He just wishes they'd leave him be. Hides in the library when he can. Looking for that book with the angels in it. But he can't find that any more than he can find the girl.

 

 

 

On his second day back Rick Grimes, the sheriff's kid, comes up to him after class. Tells him he's real sorry 'bout him mom. Offers him a chocolate bar from his lunch box which Daryl refuses. He's never said anything mean to him before, but he's best friends with Shane, and that guy has poked fun at him more times than he can count.

 

He hurries away, and Rick doesn't try to talk to him again after that.

 

* * *

 

The first time it happens, it's a slap.

 

It stings so badly that his eyes water, but he bites back the tears. It doesn't hurt as bad as his father's voice.

 

_'s ya fault she's dead. Should've been there! Ya killed her!_

 

Daryl whimpers quietly, staring at his bare toes on the stained linoleum of the trailer they moved into last week.

 

 _Ya hear me?_ His father's breath is damp on his face when he leans down, his loud voice sending jolts through his small body. He smells of smoke and beer and sweat, all familiar things. _Ya killed ya own mother._

 

 

 

That afternoon he walks over a mile across town to the abandoned playground behind the old factory. The other kids don't come here. It's a bad neighborhood, the whole place is rusty and overgrown, smeared with graffiti. But at least that means he usually has the place to himself.

 

Not today.

 

 _Hi,_ she says with a smile, pushing herself back and forth on the swing. The yellow dress she wears flutters around her calves, her hair in pig tails.

 

Awkwardly, he lingers at the edge of the playground for moment, wondering if he should just head back. But he came all this way...

 

 _Hey,_ he greets in return, marching over to the second swing. The black seat is cracked from the heat, rough to the touch, and the chains he's holding on to are leaving coppery rust on his palms.

 

_I'm Carol._

 

He kicks some pebbles away with the toe of his boot, rocking forward on the swing just barely, already causing it to squeak pathetically. _'m Daryl,_ he says eventually, not looking at the girl. He doesn't get what she's doing here in the first place.

 

 _What happened to your face?_ she asks, and he instinctively turns away from her, looking at the brick wall of the factory to their left. His skin must still be red where his father struck him, punished him for what he'd done. He deserved it, deserves the way his skin feels raw even now.

 

 _Sunburn,_ he explains with a shrug, still turned away from her.

 

All he wants is for her to be quiet.

 

 

She doesn't say anything else after that, and they sit in silence for a good long while.

 

* * *

 

He has gone hungry before. Those days when his father was out of town and his mother passed out on her bed in her silk nightgown. When he had to live off dry cereal and whatever he could salvage from a moldy piece of fruit.

 

But he has never been this hungry before.

 

The small fridge is bare except for three cans of beer, and it has been like this for two days. All he can find in the cupboards is a bag of flour with no more than a hint of it left, and a tin of tuna. He tucks that into his pocket, nearly loses his balance as he climbs down from the chair he had to stand on to reach this high.

 

All alone in his room, cuddled under the thin blanket, he gulps down the salty fish, cringing at the taste. He eats it so fast that he worries he'll throw up, holds his belly which is still hurting so much, cramping up from how empty it is.

 

He doesn't want to ask for food. Not when daddy's been drinking so much again, slurring and shouting and pounding the walls.

 

No. He can't ask him and he has no money of his own, and so he takes his empty lunch box to school the next day once more, hoping that nobody will notice.

 

 

 

He cries himself to a restless sleep that night, knees tucked into his chest, clutching his stomach as the loud sound of gun shots and screams from the television fill the night.

 

 

 

It's his lucky day.

 

It's Andrea's birthday and she brought a cake – chocolate with sprinkles and proper candles on it – which she shares with everybody during the break. He gulps down the first piece, the crumbs filling his mouth, eagerly chewing it down.

 

He eats a second slice when nobody is looking, too busy singing _happy birthday_ and slips a third into his empty lunch box. Quickly making it disappear into his worn backpack.

 

(he feels bad for stealing it, but there's plenty for everybody and he's so hungry, hurts so bad that he can barely sit upright anymore)

 

 

 

He wanted to save the cake. Knowing it would most likely be the only dinner he'd get tonight, but he hasn't even walked half of the way home from school when his knees begin to buckle under his weight.

 

The park is abandoned and so he sits under the shade of a large willow, pulling his lunch box from his backpack with trembling fingers.

 

 _That looks yummy,_ a bright voice chirps when he's on the second bite. Looking up, Carol is making her way towards him with light steps. Without asking permission, she sits down next to him, leaning her back against the rough bark of the tree. _Chocolate is the best._

 

She's smiling at him in a way he isn't used to and with her so close he can't help but notice how pretty all the freckles on her nose and cheeks make her look.

 

 _Ya want some?_ he asks quietly, holding out the crumbly remains of the cake for her. But she shakes her head, keeps on smiling.

 

_No, thank you._

 

* * *

 

Eventually, it's not just a slap anymore.

 

 

They get rougher at first. His father's knuckles meeting soft skin so hard that he can't hold back his tears anymore – and that usually earns him a second slap.

 

 

It's a closed fist once when he spills some milk on the floor. Fingers grabbing his hair when he leaves the light on in his room one night after he had a bad dream.

 

 

 

It's a cold Sunday morning when Daryl storms out of the house, his cheeks wet with tears. Clutching his hand to his chest he runs, runs, runs as far as his short legs can carry him. Until his lungs burn from the strain of it and he stops. Falls onto his knees in the middle of a barren field.

 

The earth is hard from the night's frost, digging into his knees and he is so cold. Shivers without a jacket, but he barely notices the sting of the cold. All he can feel is the burning of his palm and when he looks down, the circular wound in the middle is weeping fluids.

 

It's his momma's birthday today. Would have been. All he'd done was ask his daddy if they could drive to the graveyard – it's too far away for him to walk. He'd drawn a picture for his momma, worked on it for a week, colored it best he could with the six crayons he owns, half of them picked up from the floor at school, really belonging to somebody else.

 

But his father had roared instead, grabbed him by the hair and dragged him through the room, tearing the drawing apart and grabbing his wrist. Yelling at him that he had no right to visit her, not when it was his fault that she's not here anymore.

 

Even now, Daryl can still feel the cigarette burning through his flesh.

 

 

The harsh wind bites his wet cheeks, and Daryl doesn't move an inch. He wants to curl up here on this field and fall asleep, wake up to find it was all just a dream.

 

_Daryl?_

 

He turns his head at the sound of his name, eyes wide when Carol is marching across the field towards him. Her purple boots reflect the gray light from the clouds above. There's a leash in her hand but no dog anywhere around.

 

_What happened to you?_

 

She kneels down in front of him, eyes wide with worry.

 

He shakes his head, hides his hand behind his back. Blinks away a fresh wave of tears. Her gloved hand reaches out for him but he doesn't want her to, backs away so swiftly that he nearly loses balance.

 

 _Let me help,_ she whispers, most of her face hidden under her woolen hat and the thick scarf wrapped around her throat.

 

He shakes his head. Squeezes his eyes shut. _Can't help._

 

* * *

 

He sees her again after school the next day.

 

It's his usual way home, longer than straight through town but quiet. And there she is, leaning against the rusty shutters of an abandoned storage unit, arms crossed in front of her polka-dotted raincoat and smiling at him.

 

_Mind if I join you?_

 

She's already pushed herself away from the wall and is walking up next to him with bouncing steps, and he's so confused by her presence that he forgets to tell her he'd rather be alone.

 

It's still cold but the sun is fighting its way through the clouds, offering small sparks of warmth every now and then.

 

 _How's your hand?_ Carol asks, fiddling with the string of her coat. He looks down at the messy bandage that hides his wound – it still throbs, hurts so bad that he could barely hold his pen. He'd grabbed the gauze from the first aid kit in his dad's truck in the dead of night when he was passed out on the couch. Had cleaned the wound with tap water and wrapped it up messily, the best he could.

 

He doesn't answer Carol. Just walks briskly ahead in silence.

 

 

When they get to the corner of Quarry Lane and Hilltop Avenue, Carol stops. _I'm this way,_ she says, pointing down the pretty road framed with maple trees. He nods, doesn't say a word as he pushes past her and marches up the slight hill in the opposite direction.

 

 

 

The next day, she's waiting for him by the storage units once again.

 

* * *

 

It's not just the circular wound in the center of his palm that hurts anymore, it's his whole hand.

 

He can't hide it anymore.

 

The school nurse gasps when she peels the bandage off his hand, a sickly smell hitting his nostrils and making him gag. He throws up all over his lap, and the kind woman pats his shoulder, cleans up the mess he made.

 

She cleans the wound properly, too, asks him what happened.

 

He tells her the story he practiced a dozen times on the way here, almost believes himself. And maybe she does, too.

 

 

Because in the days that follow nobody bothers to make sure he is okay.

 

* * *

 

It heals slowly after that. Gets a little better day by day.

 

He applies the cream the nurse gave him just the way she instructed, every night before he crawls into his cold bed.

 

 

 

The winter is harsh this year, snow and ice covering the ground and the trees and the streets. Still, Carol waits for him by the storage units every day after school.

 

He never asks why she's there. They don't really talk. It's a quiet company they keep and eventually, he realizes that he doesn't mind. After all, she doesn't say nasty things to him like some of the other kids do. And she doesn't look at him the way they do either, full of disgust or pity or sometimes even fear.

 

Sometimes, though, she breaks the silence. Points out things here and there that catch her attention. The way the sun reflects on the frozen lake in the park. Funny shaped Christmas lights. The soft sounds the snow flakes make when they hit her umbrella.

 

 

 

Somehow, the world doesn't look quite as bleak through her eyes.

 

* * *

 

In the spring, Merle comes back home.

 

He has no idea where his big brother was all these months and all the answer he gets when he asks is a ruffle through his hair and a clap on the shoulder. _Ain't none of ya business, little brother._ Deep down, anger simmers because Merle ran away and left him behind.

 

 

 

Things are better with Merle around. He takes him for rides on his bike, the wind lashing around them as the engine roars. Watches movies with him that he's way too young for and give him nightmares but he feels grown up when he watches them – a little more like his big brother. He has nightmares anyway. So what if he dreams about masked murderers with machetes and kitchen knifes instead of his momma burning in front of his eyes, screaming his name in agony?

 

It's better this way.

 

 

 

Merle picks him up from school most days, takes him into the woods and shows him how to hunt. The crossbow he gives him is heavy and makes his shoulders ache but Daryl puts on a brave face.

 

He cries the day he shoots his first rabbit. Muffles his sobs in his pillow at night. He'd rather have kept it to take home alive. Build a cage for it. Feed it. Name it. Let it sit on his lap.

 

They eat it for dinner that night instead and he wants to throw up after.

 

 _Ya did well,_ Merle tells him, grinning. Their father says nothing. Just shoves the meat into his mouth and chews on it with yellow teeth.

 

 

 

He doesn't see Carol for weeks now that he's not walking home anymore. For a while, he doesn't even think about her. But then, when the newness and the excitement of having Merle back in his life slowly fades into normalcy, he wonders what she's up to.

 

 

 

Most of all, his daddy doesn't touch him when Merle is around. He still drinks and yells but he doesn't lay a hand on him. Not once.

 

 

 

Merle is gone again long before the first days of summer arrive.

 

* * *

 

Three days after Merle leaves, his father uses the belt on him for the first time.

 

 

 

The first lash hurts so bad that he can't even scream, skin cracking open as the worn leather whips through the air. He passes out when the belt hits him a second time.

 

By the time he wakes up, it's dark outside. Flat on his belly on his thin mattress, he cries and cries, clutches the sheets as every fiber of his body wails in pain. The room smells of blood and sweat and he wishes he could move. That he could run away.

 

He falls asleep instead, too exhausted in the end to keep his eyes open.

 

 

 

The next morning, his father drags him out of his room with a large hand curled too tightly around his upper arm, leaving blue fingerprints behind. _Get'ya lazy ass ta school. Don't want nobody come knockin' here._

 

He begs and pleads, tears streaking his face as he stumbles along, knees buckling from the pain.

 

_Daddy, please!_

 

His knees roughly hit the ground when his father abruptly lets go of him, the skin scraping open as the linoleum burns a few layers of it away.

 

He barely notices the pain.

 

 _Stop cryin',_ his father says, staring down at him with fire in his eyes. _An' clean up the mess._

 

 

 

He scrubs away the drops of blood he trailed behind him, knees raw and eyes red and dry. His father's on the phone with the school, telling them he came down with a stomach bug. Watches him the entire time to make sure he wipes away all evidence of what happened.

 

 

 

When he goes back to school a week later, Carol waits for him by the storage units again.

 

_Haven't seen you in a while._

 

* * *

 

She talks more these days. About her favorite foods, none of which he has ever tried. About cartoons and music and teachers. She tells him about far away places she visited.

 

(warm sand beneath bare feet, the song of seagulls above. rich, green forests, the smell of damp grass in the air. busy, bustling cities, a million different people passing by.)

 

He has never been out of this town in his entire life. A blush creeps into his cheeks when she smiles. Nervous fingers fidgeting with the strings of his backpack.

 

_You'll see the world, too._

 

 

 

He doesn't know why she bothers promising him this. In the big, whole world, he has nowhere else to go.

 

* * *

 

 _Do you have any plans for the summer?_ Carol's voice sounds about as sweet as the peaches they picked from a tree by the old quarry, a detour they took because the sky is powder blue and the peach trees up there don't really belong to anyone who cares about them.

 

He takes a bite of his own, the sweet juice running down his chin and he wipes it away with the back of his hand, shaking his head.

 

It's the last day of school and he goes home with decent grades and a backpack full of peaches. Don't matter that he doesn't have plans. It's a nice day.

 

 _Maybe we'll see each other around,_ Carol says with a smile, twirling a curl of her auburn hair around her finger.

 

He hums through a mouthful of peach, hoping that she's right.

 

 

 

He doesn't see her all summer.

 

 

 

His daddy brings home a woman, kind with long, blonde hair and red lips. Sally. She's laughing loudly during the day and makes funny sounds during the night that Daryl can't even muffle with a pillow over his own head, but she's nice enough. Calls him _lil' one_ and is kind to him.

 

When she's around, his daddy doesn't drink as much. Goes a whole week with no more than a bottle of cold beer at night.

 

 

 

_Grab them boots, boy. We're headin' out._

 

He flashes him a yellow-teethed smile and Daryl sits up in bed, quickly shoving the comic book under his pillow that he's been reading. _Where?_

 

_Gonna show ya how ta catch us some dinner. Ya brother don't know jack._

 

 

 

They spend all day in the woods. Quiet. Alone. The shade providing some relief from the heat.

 

His arms ache from holding the bow, and sweat has soaked through his shirt, but Daryl keeps a straight face, concentrates on what he's supposed to do. Gives it his all because he doesn't want to mess up.

 

That night, Daryl doesn't cry when they dig into their dinner. He's proud.

 

_Ya did well, son._

 

 

 

Hunting. Making a fire. Building shelter. He learns it all that summer, everything his daddy knows. And he's good, he tells him that. Claps his shoulder and looks at him like he cares.

 

 

 

Sally leaves the weekend before school starts again, screaming and screeching in the dead of night and tearing Daryl from his sleep. He watches through a crack in his bedroom door as she storms out of the house in just her underwear, blood trickling from her split lip, and his father staggers behind her, yelling at her what a cunt she is.

 

Daryl quietly closes his door, sinks down onto the floor with his arms wrapped around his bony knees. Waiting.

 

* * *

 

The first day back, Carol doesn't ask him how his summer was.

 

He doesn't ask her about her own.

 

(he can see it. the way her skin is covered in even more freckles, the way her arms and legs don't look as pale. _sunkissed_ , he thinks he read in a book somewhere. he didn't get it then but he gets it now.)

 

(all he has to show for is skin burned red by the glaring heat and a fading bruise around his eye. labored steps because his back still aches, burn, weeps.)

 

 

 

 _See you tomorrow,_ Daryl. Her lips curl into her smile when they reach the corner of her street and she turns on her heels, takes bouncing steps. The shadows of the trees cast a funny pattern on the sidewalk.

 

_See ya._

 

She stops walking. He stops breathing.

 

She turns. He stares.

 

She smiles. He waves.

 

(awkward, stiff, red-faced)

 

 _I'll be there._ Her promise tastes like honey, and it keeps his step light even as he heads home, his father's truck parked in front.

 

 

 

That day, the cruel remarks he throws at him don't hurt as much.

 

* * *

 

One year later, he misses the first day of junior high.

 

Laying face down on his bed, he has no more tears to shed. His eyes are dry and raw, his sheets torn from where he clawed at them all night. Blood begins to crust on his back, the deep lashes between his shoulder blades set aflame.

 

He's on fire. His skin. His blood. Everything.

 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he imagines he is somewhere else. Somewhere good. Living in a nice house with a big room for himself, a dog wiggling its tail, his momma and daddy happy and smiling and kind. There's Carol, too, in the dream he paints to distract himself from his pain. She's just the way she always is. Perfect.

 

And then it all fades, and all that remains is the taste of salt and the stench of blood.

 

 

 

Three days later, when he finally drags himself to school, Phillip Blake and his small group of assholes corner him by the dumpster at the back of the parking lot.

 

 _Taken a shower recently, Dixon?_ One of them asks, pinching his nose.

 

 _Found those clothes in there?_ asks another, pointing at the dumpster behind him. He's stuck, backed into a corner, his fingers turning into weak fists.

 

When the first blow hits him, he tumbles to the ground. He's not strong enough to defend himself, to even put up a fight. It's what saves him that day, the four of them quickly loosing interest.

 

 _Man, what a pussy._ Through half-closed eyes Daryl sees the tall guy towering over him. _Piece o' trash._ His spit hits him right on the cheek where the small pebbles have dug their way into the skin and he turns away with a pained wince.

 

 

 

It's Rick who finds him there. Who pulls him to his feet and wants to take him to the school nurse. Tell the principal what happened. _I'll talk to my dad,_ he promises.

 

He can't help. Can only make it worse.

 

 _Piss off!_ Daryl hisses at him, dizzy with pain, wiping spit off his cheek with his sleeve. _Mind ya own damn business._

 

 

 

He doesn't go back to class. Won't take the ridicule.

 

Instead, he hides behind the gym, sitting on the rough concrete ground with his head leaning against the brick wall. The sun glares down on him without mercy here but he doesn't care, doesn't bother wiping the sweat off his skin.

 

Every bone in his body hurts and he knows there's blood soaking through his shirt where the bandages he'd clumsily put on himself have torn.

 

From his periphery, he sees someone approaching him, and he doesn't have to turn to know who it is.

 

 _I'm sorry._ She sits down next to him, so close he can feel her presence tingling in the air. Tears are dwelling in his eyes and he blinks them away, furious and in shame. _They're not worth it, you know?_

 

 

Her hand is soft and cool when she rests it against his forearm. Squeezes.

 

They sit in silence for a while, his tears leaving glistening streaks down his dusty cheeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this about two months ago, but only wrote a little bit at a time because I wanted to focus more on my other WIP. It was meant to be a oneshot but is turning out larger than that, so I decided to split it on (I think) three parts. This is going to take Carol and Daryl all the way to their senior year of high school, so we still have some ground to cover.
> 
> Writing this has been interesting so far because it's quite different from what I usually write. Despite the dark subject matter, I hope you enjoyed this :)
> 
> (and yes, I went all cheese with the song. not sorry.)


	2. you're gonna be the one that saves me

It becomes their spot.

 

With his worn backpack and meager lunch box, Daryl is drawn to the rough concrete and brick wall every day. Even during the breaks, it's quiet back there, nobody bothering to walk all the way around the gym to get here. Nobody is as desperate for solitude.

 

He is glad to share it with Carol, though.

 

 

Some days, she brings him food. Homemade cookies or thick sandwiches, containers filled to the brim with leftovers. It always tastes like heaven after a slice of dry toast with stale peanut butter or a packet of salty crackers and a bland apple.

 

At first, he refuses. Over and over. Doesn't want her pity or charity. But after a while, he gives in.

 

She has a talent for that, he notices after a while. Changing his mind, pulling him out of his shell. It's not until months later that he realizes she's taking apart the walls he has erected around himself. Brick by brick. One forced smile after the other until eventually, every time she laughs (crystal clear and bright), his own lips twitch genuinely, curling up towards the autumn sun.

 

* * *

 

_You're a little preoccupied._ Carol's voice is difficult to make out with most of her face hidden underneath a thick scarf. Her breath pushes through the wool in a misty cloud, her hands folded in her lap. _What's wrong?_

 

_Gotta do a presentation,_ he admits, squirming on the ratty blanket that offers little shelter from the cold ground. _Don't know how._

 

It's due next week and he hasn't even started, too afraid. _Well, what's it about?_ Carol sounds as curious as she always does, and he dares a glimpse at the beaming red of her cheeks before looking down at his boots.

 

_Symbols o' hope. We can pick one ourselves,_ he shrugs. It doesn't really matter. He's going to get a shit grade for it in the end, anyway. He already knows that. So why make an effort?

 

_Do you have an idea?_

 

He nods, picking at a loose seam on his jeans. _Cherokee Rose._

 

_The state flower?_

 

Humming, he turns to look at Carol – all blue eyes and curly hair and warm smiles. _Ya know the story?_

 

_Tell me._

 

He does. Knows the story by heart. A few year ago, he read all about it in a book he's sure belonged to his mother – worn with thin, yellowed pages and old drawings. Tales and fables and legends and stories like this, all weaved together. Most were too difficult for him to understand. But the story about the pretty white flower that grew outside his bedroom window, that one found roots in him.

 

When he finishes, Carol tugs her scarf down a little, revealing a delicate smile. _Why are you worried about the presentation?_

 

He sighs, looking away. _Don't know how to stand in front o' people an' tell 'em stuff._ What goes unsaid is the ridicule he knows he'll have to endure, chuckles and muffled laughter, stupid questions, judgmental stares.

 

_You just told_ me _._

 

_'s different,_ he says, nudging the toe of his boot against a few pebbles on the ground. Carol never laughs at him, not in the way the others do. She never looks at him with disgust or pity, not even after all this time. Some days he wonders if she even knows what a pathetic loser he really is.

 

_Not really. Just pretend you're telling me._ Everything always sounds so simple and reasonable when she suggests it. As if life just flows like a river, a pretty one with clear water and flowers framing the shore. _We can practice if you want,_ she suggests, and he knows she means it.

 

* * *

 

He comes down with a cold over the holidays – as if that time of the year wasn't already miserable enough.

 

At least his father's out of town for a few days, so he can lay on the couch and watch television all day. Time passes slowly like this, wasted hours drifting away.

 

The day before Christmas, a letter arrives for him in the mail, Merle's crappy handwriting on the envelope. It's a postcard from New Mexico, a twenty dollar bill taped to it.

 

_merry xmas little brother_ is all it says, but it's more than he expected. He orders himself a pizza. Puts the rest of the money into his old pillow case under the bed.

 

On Christmas Day, he wakes up with a fever. Sleeps through the day with a sheen of sweat covering his skin.

 

 

The old man comes back home on New Year's Eve, piss drunk and with a black eye.

 

That night, the fireworks drown out Daryl's pained whimpers.

 

* * *

 

Ugly.

 

That's the first word that comes to mind when he stares at himself in the mirror.

 

He's too thin, his cheeks fallen in, cheekbones too sharp. Dark circles frame his eyes, his lips dry and cracked. His hair is a mess, falling into his face, sticking up in all the wrong places.

 

He looks down at himself, legs like twigs, skinny arms covered in goosebumps. Dirt under his fingernails.

 

With a shuddering breath, he turns around. Takes in the sight of the carnage on his back. But he can only look for a second before he squeezes his eyes shut.

 

Some lashes have healed, scarred. Others are still healing. Raw and itchy.

 

 

The lock on the bathroom door is broken and so he jams a chair under the handle instead. Rattles it for good measure until he's sure nobody can get in.

 

When the lukewarm water of the shower hits his bare skin, he closes his eyes. Pretends he's somewhere else. There has to be a place out there that's good. That's better.

 

 

By the time the water runs cold, he's still here, standing on the stained tiles, skin scrubbed raw. He's glad the mirror is all steamed up and that he doesn't have to look at himself anymore.

 

* * *

 

_Hey, Dixon! You hiding in the dumpster again?_ Shane's voice hollers down the hallway, but Daryl doesn't stop walking. The fact that he's not hiding in or anywhere near the dumpster is a technicality he won't bring up, either.

 

_Dixon, I'm talkin' to ya._ Heavy steps thunder down the hallway and Daryl notices the nervous glances people are throwing at him, all huddled into small groups by their lockers. _Dixon!_

 

He's ready to start running, but then he hears Rick s voice. _Leave him be, man._

 

He's out the door before he hears everything else.

 

 

When he makes it to their spot, Carol is already waiting for him with a wide smile, and he's never been more grateful that nobody is holding it against her that she spends so much time with him.

 

* * *

 

It's late spring when he hears from Merle again. A call from jail that stirs him from his sleep on a Saturday afternoon, the old man out of the house for the second day in a row.

 

He refuses to take the call.

 

 

Again on Tuesday.

 

 

And on Thursday.

 

He doesn't want to know why Merle is locked up again, just knows he probably deserved it.

 

 

The next Saturday, his father answers the phone. Refuses it all the same.

 

When he finds out Daryl did the same, it earns him a beating so bad he's out of school for a whole week. He doesn't regret it, though.

 

 

It's been a long time since his father looked for an actual reason to unleash his anger on him.

 

* * *

 

Merle shows up two months later. Picks him up from school on his roaring bike. Or he wants to.

 

But Daryl can see Carol waiting for him by the large maple tree across the yard, far away from everyone else.

 

He walks right past his brother. Doesn't even tell him hello. But by the time he finally pushes through the crowd, Carol is gone.

 

 

The wind bites his cheeks on the back of the bike, and he doesn't miss the stench of beer on his brother's breath.

 

 

 

Merle stays all summer, and Daryl doesn't see Carol once. Wonders where she went, what happened.

 

Deep in the woods with his brother and father, there's not much room to dwell on the smiling girl with the auburn hair.

 

 

Only at night, he dreams of her.

 

* * *

 

_You're back._ Her hair is longer, bouncing down her back, shoulders covered in freckles. Her yellow cardigan is folded beneath her, legs stretched out into the sunlight.

 

_I wasn't gone,_ she says softly, face turned up towards the powder blue sky. He frowns but sits down next to her. _Tell me about your summer._

 

He gives her a shrug, staring at his dusty shoes against the hot concrete. It's only the first day back at school and he already wants to forget about the summer.

 

Quiet as it had been.

 

_Was huntin'._

 

That's all he tells her.

 

Not about how it ended. With a kicked in door and broken bottles of beer. With a gash on his chest that bled so much he almost dragged himself to the hospital on his bare feet.

 

Carol turns her head, smiling.

 

_I'm glad you're back._

 

 

 

As if he'd ever go anywhere else.

 

 

As if he _has_ anywhere to go.

 

* * *

 

So he stays. Waits for time to pass. Waiting. Waiting.

 

 

He has no damn clue what exactly he's waiting for.

 

* * *

 

The summer before high school, his father has an accident. Crashes his truck into a tree in the dead of night.

 

For a couple of hours, he's stuck somewhere between life and death. Daryl roams the too bright hallway of the hospital, waiting for answers.

 

For a couple of hours, he fights a wish that spreads through him like a dark cloud.

 

A silent prayer.

 

That the old man won't make it.

 

(maybe they'll send him to live with his uncle. maybe he'll end up in the system. maybe merle will step up, wherever he is. take him to the big city. keep all the promises he made so long ago.)

 

Anything would be better than this life.

 

 

 

But the old man pulls through. And for weeks after, every time Daryl looks at his father's blue and swollen face, he feels ashamed for wishing he'd rather be an orphan.

 

* * *

 

Things improve a little after the accident.

 

 

His father is more quiet than before. Seems broken. Sometimes, a look haunts his face that Daryl knows too well – he has seen it a dozen times in the mirror every time his father beat him bloody, but never enough to just end all this. There's regret in his father's eyes, the kind that makes him wonder if the accident really was an accident.

 

He drinks even more than before, mostly to numb the pain. So much that most days, he's passed out on the couch when Daryl comes home from school. The stench of beer and sweat and piss welcomes him every day, but it's better than blood and pain.

 

 

 

Daryl tries no to think about all the bills that need to be paid. It shouldn't be his task to worry about that. But he knows that every lukewarm shower he's taking might be his last.

 

 

 

The old man's too weak to lay a hand on him now. Calls him names sometimes. Calls him worthless, a shame. Pathetic. But none of that is new and none of it hurts as much as a belt cutting through the skin on his back.

 

He can take words from his father.

 

They don't matter shit.

 

 

 

Merle doesn't show up very often after the accident, and Daryl's pretty sure it's because his brother is worried he'll be stuck here to take care of their father. Nurse him back to health when there's no point to that anyway. He's broken and battered beyond repair and one day, he'll drink just a little too much for his body to take.

 

 

In the darkness of his room with his fingers trailing over the ridges of old scars, Daryl wonders if things will change once that day comes. If that will set him free.

 

Or if everything will always stay the same.

 

* * *

 

When the next summer comes, nothing has changed.

 

 

 

Nothing except Carol.

 

 

She's always been pretty. With her pale, freckle speckled skin and auburn curls, her eyes as blue as the spring sky. But lately, she's grown even prettier, and he notices. God, does he notice.

 

Over the summer, she grew enough for him to realize just how long her legs are. When she wears tight shirts, he can make out the flare of her hips and the swells of her small breasts – and fuck if his eyes don't linger there too long every time.

 

 

He tries not to look, not to act like a total creep.

 

But he can't help the dreams he has at night, filled with her smiles and creamy skin. More than once he wakes in the morning to clean up his own mess, feeling ashamed and disgusted.

 

His father catches him tossing his sheets in the wash one day, laughs at him and makes fun, telling him nasty, crude things.

 

 

He doesn't dream of her again for months after that.

 

Doesn't touch himself for even longer.

 

* * *

 

_How bad do you think it's going to be?_ Carol asks, delicate fingers toying with the bracelet around her wrist. The beads make a funny sound every time she moves, and his eyes are fixed there where she swirls them around and around.

 

He shrugs. _Don't know._ A storm is supposed to hit them later today, all classes canceled after lunch time. He and Carol stayed behind, though, laying flat on their backs on the lawn behind the janitor's tool shed. The sky is still a perfect shade of blue with just a few clouds streaking the canvas, the air around them humid, still and warm.

 

_I like storms. They're cozy._ Carol turns her head towards him, just a hand's width of space between them and he can smell cherries and vanilla along with the dry grass and earth beneath them. He's glad the heat has already sent a flush to his cheeks.

 

He hates storms. They're loud and messy, and cozy is the last word he'd use. But Carol lives in a proper house, probably has a soft bed to curl up in and let the wind and rain howl and drum around her – singing her to sleep. He'll be cold and damp, and the trailer will rattle and shake along with the trees surrounding it.

 

Usually, it's easy to see the beauty she sees in everything. But not this time.

 

_I always wanted to dance in the rain._ Her voice is low and dreamy, almost as if she's somewhere far away – when really she is so close he could just twitch his finger and touch her. A daydream seems to haunt her and he can imagine her twirling around in a meadow in a yellow dress, the one she'd worn the day they met. Droplets of water running down her pale arms, curling her hair, clinging to her lashes.

 

The thought makes him smile.

 

_Don't go doin' that tonight,_ he chuckles and she smiles so brightly that his heart stings a little.

 

_Idiot,_ she huffs and her fingers abandon the beads of her bracelet to reach out towards him. By instinct, he flinches and she freezes, her hand just an inch away from his shoulder. _Sorry,_ she breathes, already lowering her hand back to the ground.

 

_'s all right._

 

It's not. And he wonders if it ever will be. If _he_ ever will be.

 

 

 

When thunder roars through the night later, he lays awake on his thin mattress, trying to find the same comfort that Carol promised.

 

But he can't. Not without her.

 

* * *

 

A cold wrecks him the next spring. He carries it around for a while, coughing and sneezing in the back of the classroom, eyes watery and the skin of his nose raw.

 

Eventually, it hits him full force and he has no choice but to stay at home.

 

Outside, the birds are singing. With his window cracked open and the walls paper thin, he can hear the tune all too well. The soft, mild breeze carries the smell of morning dew and fresh flowers, the damp undergrowth of the woods and a hint of motor oil from the shed.

 

He's half asleep, his history textbook abandoned next to him on the bed.

 

A soft knock on his window startles him, and he sits up straight within a second, his vision blurring a little. _Carol?_ he hisses, not quite believing his eyes when he spots her there outside his window.

 

She climbs inside with lithe movements when he pulls it open all the way, her cheeks pink and her lips shiny.

 

_What'ya doin' here?_ His voice sounds pathetic, hoarse and too high. Nervously, he smooths out the wrinkles in his patched up sweatpants, stares down at his bare feet.

 

_I wanted to see how you're doing,_ she explains, sitting down on the chair by his desk - littered with books and half finished homework, empty plates and a few comic books he'd forgotten to put away. _So, how are you?_

 

He shrugs, worrying his thumbnail with his teeth and avoiding her gaze. She's never been in here before, and he's embarrassed by the state of his room. Her own must be pretty, soft and comfortable. His is bleak and cold and a mess.

 

_'m fine._

 

The old man is out of the house, thank God. His uncle took him somewhere, probably to get drunk and pick up a hooker. It doesn't matter as long as he's not here. Especially now.

 

_I thought you might like some company._ He'd laugh at how ridiculous that thought is, but before he can he realizes just how much he missed her in the two days since he last saw her. And so he just shrugs again, awkward and one-sided.

 

 

The next thing he knows he's sitting on his bed with Carol by his side, her legs crossed beneath her and her shoes on the floor, flicking through comic books together and explaining them to her. Telling her what he likes about them.

 

She listens, eyes curious, lips curled up into a smile, and he never felt like he belonged anywhere more than right here with her.

 

* * *

 

_Daryl!_ His father's voice hollers through the trailer, and Daryl's body tenses instantly where he's perched over his desk.

 

The door to his room is roughly pushed open a second later, crashing into the bookshelf and sending a few textbooks tumbling down onto the floor. _Why ain't there any goddamned food in the fridge?_ The old man's voice is raised, half his chest exposed where he left his shirt unbuttoned, what little is left of his hair sticking in all directions.

 

Daryl just swallows, his grip on his pen tightening. _Ya lost ya voice? Gone mute?_

 

_There was no money,_ he explains. There really hadn't been, but he didn't have time to go to the store either. He'd hoped his father wouldn't notice so soon.

 

_'bout time ya got off ya lazy ass an' earn some money for the family. Ain't like ya damn brother cares a dime 'bout us._

 

There's little grief to his father's voice, only spite.

 

_I have school-_ Daryl begins, vaguely pointing at his assignment on the desk that he's been working on all week.

 

_Y'ain't ever gonna finish fuckin' school anyway, son,_ he yells, pounding his first into the door frame. _That who ya think y'are?_ He's taking three unsteady steps into the room, his back not allowing for much more after the accident. But Daryl still moves back in his chair, flinching as too many memories have conditioned him to do. _Some smart ass kid whose gonna go ta college and wear a fuckin' suit?_

 

He's right in his space now, still towering over him even though Daryl has grown so much. The stench of beer and sweat makes his eyes water, but his father's balled fists are what really has his heart pounding. _Think ya better than y'old man' that it?_ he hisses, eyes narrowed and yellow teeth exposed.

 

The words sting more than they should. Neither his father nor Merle finished high school or even bothered trying. He's not a great student, either. But he does try. Finishes his homework on time and reads the books, but he can't bring himself to speak up in class, knowing he'll just earn himself comments from his classmates.

 

But he wants to make it. Maybe not to college, but at least to graduation. It doesn't matter shit that the old man doesn't believe in him. But the idea of ending up just like him has haunted him for years.

 

_I'll go to the store,_ he mutters, dropping his pen and pushing himself out of the chair. His father doesn't pull away but he moves past him easily, wondering already what the hell he's going to buy with the five dollars left in his wallet.

 

There's more money hidden under his bed, almost four hundred dollars that he scraped together over the years. Money he's going to use to get out of here one day.

 

_Yeah, run!_ His father yells after him, his heavy footsteps thudding through the mall space. _Ya used ta be able ta take more._

 

Daryl lingers by the door, hand curled around the handle. Anger simmers inside of him, a blinding rage that brings back the pain of a dozen belt whips and cigarette burns. His body comes alive with pain, hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

 

But he pushes it all away, storms out of the front door instead and into the early summer heat.

 

* * *

 

That summer, he spends almost every day with Carol. Up by the small lake, they soak up the sun. It's secluded in the woods, not a spot where anyone ever goes swimming and so they have it all to themselves.

 

It's peaceful up there, quiet. The water still and reflecting the sunbeams, one side framed entirely by bushes of Cherokee Roses.

 

Carol has one tucked into her hair behind her ear now, the auburn curls shining in the sun, her pale skin a slight shade of pink and dusted with too many freckles to count.

 

_Do you miss him?_ Carol asks, breaking the comfortable silence they'd been submerged in. She moves her bare feet back and forth in the cool water of the lake, her ankle briefly brushing his own. His eyes are closed, soaking up the prickling warmth of the sun on his face. _Your brother?_

 

He swallows, wondering what made her ask him this. _No,_ he answers briskly and too quickly, and when he opens his eyes he can see Carol's forehead in creases. _Not really._

 

Merle hasn't shown up in over a year. There'd been a letter once last Christmas, and a phone call or two. He'd been in California, Daryl thinks, but he didn't care much one way or the other.

 

Last week, they'd gotten another call. From prison this time. He'd only briefly mentioned it to Carol, and he suddenly wishes he hadn't because now she's looking at him like she's expecting the truth.

 

_'s nice when he's here sometimes,_ he mutters, watching the distorted image of his pale feet under the water. His palm press into the dry grass they are sitting on, fingers digging into the ground. _But he ain't ever here for long. Always goes runnin'._ It makes it hard to cherish the time they do get to spend together, and over the years he came to struggle to accept the person his brother became. _Don't really blame him no more,_ he admits with a sigh, turning to look at Carol who looks so damn beautiful and so damn sad. It's a sadness he put there. _I'd run if I could._

 

Carol moves slowly and deliberately, reaching out one delicate hand and resting it on top of his own. It's slow enough not to startle him but it still sends a shiver through his body. _You will. One day._ Her smile is so genuine that it's almost contagious, and her confidence in him makes him blush more than the heat of the sun. _You'll get out of here._

 

They never talk much about the future. And he still hasn't really made any plans. The desperate need to get out of here remains foggy, no real reason or opportunity coming to mind. _Don't know,_ he shrugs, weathered by the same old fear that he's just another Dixon with the same bad blood and that he'll end up like all the ones that came before him.

 

There's nothing that makes him special.

 

Carol, however, seems to think differently. _I do._

 

* * *

 

During their junior year, he finally finds a way. A solution.

 

 

When they are told to find a place for a three-week work placement, he struggles for weeks to come up with anything. There's nothing that particularly interests him and is actually within his reach. Ain't like he's ever going to be a doctor or police officer, so why bother with that?

 

Carol tries her best to help but he's not exactly the easiest person to help. He's too convinced that he won't be any good at anything and so he brushes off every single one of her suggestions before he even has time to properly consider them.

 

If anything, he keeps telling himself he'll end up drifting around like Merle, working small jobs here and there. Never making anything of himself.

 

But when the deadline approaches at a fast pace, he eventually has to make a decision. And it's Carol who has the right idea in the end.

 

 

 

There are two car repair shops in town, and he sure as Hell won't even consider the one down on Sanctuary Street. It's run by the same guy who owns the used cars shop next door, and the owner's son is a senior at their school. Head of the baseball team, always with a pretty girl on his arm, and overall the biggest creep Daryl can possibly imagine.

 

There is one other, much smaller and run by Dale Horvath, a middle-aged guy whose wife owns a diner that serves great pancakes - or so Daryl heard.

 

He doesn't expect to actually be given the chance on such short notice. But the man is kind and doesn't seem to judge, and Daryl's interest in bikes and cars somehow seems to delight him.

 

 

The three weeks he spends in the garage are some of the best of his life. Finally, he feels like he truly belongs somewhere, to a place. The other men only look at him funny and call him _kid_ for about a week before they realize he actually wants to learn.

 

And learn he does. He comes early in the morning and helps Dale lock up late in the evening - staying much longer than he needs to. He soaks up everything they teach him, offers his help wherever he can and when he's actually good at something, nobody is more surprised than him.

 

 

The idea of doing this every day instead of going back to school is tempting, but on his last day Dale pulls him aside, puts a hand on his shoulder and offers him a kind smile.

 

In that moment, Daryl understands for the first time what it might feel like to have a father.

 

He offers him a summer job, to come over and help out after school or on Saturdays whenever he feels like it - even offers him some money for it. Not a lot, but it's better than nothing and he'd do it for free anyway.

 

 

 

When he sees Carol again on the first day back in school, she smiles at him knowingly from across the yard. And for the first time in his life, he's not ashamed to feel proud.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to have one more chapter than I planned because it was getting too long.
> 
> There are quite a few time jumps in this chapter and I really hope it made sense.


	3. cause after all

Two days into the new year, Merle shows up. And he shows no sign of leaving, either. For the first time in years, he seems to settle back into living in their trailer, sleeping on the ratty couch, eating their food.

 

Daryl tries to avoid him as much as he can. Most afternoons, he spends with Carol in the parking lot overlooking the quarry. They do their homework there, the temperatures mild enough for them to sit in the bed of his dad's truck with blankets thrown lazily over their shoulders.

 

But he can't avoid his brother all the time.

 

 

 

It's a Sunday afternoon in early February, the sky overcast, some stupid quiz show playing on TV, their father passed out in his bedroom.

 

For the fourth time in the last twenty minutes, Merle checks his watch. _Come on,_ he says then, setting his beer down on the littered coffee table and rising to his feet. _We're goin' out._

 

_Where?_ Daryl's forehead creases and he eyes his brother carefully - hollowed out cheeks and glassy eyes.

 

_Surprise, baby brother,_ he says with a wink, grabbing a jacket from the chair by the door and tossing it at him. The keys for his bike are already dangling from his fingers.

 

 

The place he takes him to is shabby and rundown, smells of stale smoke, sweat and beer. It's a bar, but none Daryl has ever heard of. When Merle disappears through a door behind the counter and comes back with a young woman on his arm, wearing barely more than a scrap of nothing, he realizes what this place really is.

 

_Merle, what the fuck?_ he asks, already backing up to the door. The man behind the bar eyes him with a raised brow, wiping the wooden counter with a ratty cloth.

 

Merle grins, patting he girl's arm. She looks like she's in her early twenties, long hair that's been dyed blond too any times, her pink lipstick faded, her body looking tired. _'bout time someone popped ya cherry, kid. Belated Christmas gift from good ol' Merle,_ he explains with a wink.

 

Panic surges through Daryl's veins, his palms clammy. _Piss off, man,_ he hisses, turning around. But Merle has crossed the room in three strides, grabbing his arms and turning him back around.

 

_Hey, hey, hey. The lady's here for you._ He points over his shoulder to the girl, and Daryl's eyes follow. She has a pretty smile, he notices, and crystal clear blue eyes. But that only makes him feel sick.

 

He shakes off Merle's hands, his own balled into fists. _Why do you even think I'm-_

 

Merle barks out a laugh before he can even finish the question, barely able to catch his breath. _Really, kid? Ya ever even_ talked _to a girl?_

 

Daryl looks down at his boots, shame and humiliation throbbing in his veins. He wants to punch Merle in the face, but a bar fight would only get him into trouble he can't afford. Instead, he looks up at the brother who is making fun of him. _Have_ you _?_ he asks quietly, turning around before Merle can say anything else.

 

 

It takes him an hour to walk home, and when he passes Carol's house on the way, he lingers. The sun is beginning to set and light is switched on in her room. For a moment, he sees her moving around. But he feels like a creep staring and so he marches on, ignoring the rain that's soaking into his clothes.

 

* * *

 

_What's wrong?_

 

_Nothin'._

 

_Daryl-_

 

_Ain't nothin' wrong._

 

_Sorry._

 

_Nah, I'm sorry._

 

_What page are you on?_

 

_394._

 

* * *

 

Merle doesn't mention the incident again, and it's a welcome surprise.

 

 

 

A month later, they're eating pizza on the small front deck, washing it down with cold beer as the sun warms their skin. It's nice, Daryl has to admit.

 

_Ya gotta get outta this shit hole, man,_ Merle says, waving his arm around. _Ya wanna stay 'round here long enough 'til ya gotta wipe the old bastard's ass for him?_ Daryl takes a sip of beer, listening to what his brother has to say. He's surprisingly enthusiastic and genuine for once. _Come with me. Whole world out there, little brother,_ he promises with a grin. _Ain' nobody tellin' ya what'ya can and can't do._

 

Daryl feels his brows disappearing under the hair that covers his forehead. _That why y'always in jail?_

 

Merle snorts, shrugs. Grabs another bottle of beer. _Come on. Gotta bend some rules._ Daryl doesn't agree but he keeps his mouth shut. This isn't the kind of conversation to have with his brother. _What'ya say? You an' me, out on the road._

 

He'd promised Daryl the same thing so many times when he was younger. Empty promises that only made the horrors of his reality so much worse. _Can't,_ Daryl replies, feeling not even the slightest temptation to ditch this town to follow his brother around. Not like before, when he'd lay awake at night wishing his big brother would come and take him away. _Got school. Gonna graduate next year._

 

He isn't surprised when anger flashes across Merle's face. _The hell ya need that for?_ he asks with a louder voice, setting the bottle down so hard some liquid spills over. _Y'ain't some pussy whose gonna go to college. That what'ya wanna do?_

 

Daryl tries to remain calm, staring at the edge of the forest. He doesn't want to hear the same old story. That he's not good enough anyway. _Cars. Wanna work with cars._

 

_Huh._ Merle is quiet for a moment, obviously relieved Daryl isn't chasing any dreams of going to medical school. _Well, I can hook you up with people. Work a lil' bit here and there._ He winks when Daryl looks up at him and that tells him enough about the nature of those jobs.

 

What he says next is something Daryl never thought he'd hear himself say. _I'm staying, Merle._

 

Merle stares at him with the same disbelief. _Fine._ He stands then, towering over him, the beer long forgotten. _Don't come runnin' to me then when ya stuck here feedin' the bastard mashed peas._

 

He storms inside the house, slamming the front door shut and leaving Daryl alone in the quiet afternoon sun.

 

_Ain't stayin' for him,_ he mutters to himself, reaching for another slice of pizza.

 

 

 

Two days later, Merle leaves again. Doesn't even say goodbye.

 

 

 

Three weeks later, they get a call from some town up in Indiana. The police. Telling them that Merle has been admitted to the hospital for an overdose.

 

He'll pull through, they tell them.

 

But it's the last time Daryl ever hears about his brother.

 

* * *

 

The summer before senior year is the best of his life.

 

He's working at the garage five days a week, earning decent money for the first time in his life. Mostly, he's helping out. Cleaning tools, offering the guys a hand, sorting files and doing paper work for Dale, running errands. But he also spends a lot of time under the hoods of cars, soaking up everything the guys are willing to teach him.

 

For the first time, he feels like he has a purpose. He's _good_ at this. And he feels ambitious enough to want to improve.

 

 

 

At home, however, it's a whole different world. Merle leaving again sent their father into a downward spiral. He's drinking more than he has in years - so much that Daryl has to call the ambulance one night when he finds the sorry bastard passed out on the living room floor, choking on his own vomit.

 

He doesn't even stay the night.

 

 

It's not the wake up call it could have been. The words he throws at Daryl grow more and more spiteful, and for the first time since the accident, he's violent again.

 

Daryl is bigger now than he was before. Stronger than he was as a kid. But even that isn't a guarantee. A slap on the cheek catches him by surprise, a splash of hit water on his arm the same.

 

So, after a while, he doesn't come home anymore after work. Not until late at night.

 

Instead, he spends his afternoons at the lake with Carol, soaking up the sun as they lay on their blankets, bare feet sometimes dangling in the cool water.

 

Usually, they stay until the sun goes down and the stars appear in the sky, reflecting in her pretty eyes, milky skin glowing in the moonlight.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks into their summer, it's so damn hot that Daryl wishes they'd have one of them fancy umbrellas for at least a little protection from the sun. Even with lemonade from a cooler it's hot enough to fry them alive, and he pants even as he's laying flat on his back, his pasty chins exposed to the light. He's pretty sure they are going to be lobster red tonight.

 

Carol groans next to him, wiping pearls of sweat from her forehead. Frustrated, she sits up, obstructing the sun. _Let's go swimming._

 

He snorts, shaking his head. _Hell no._

 

_Why not?_ He can think of a million reasons why not, but he doesn't exactly want to elaborate on any of them. _It's so hot, I'm dying here._ To make her point clearer, she fans some humid air into her face - flushed red and scattered with more freckles than ever before.

 

_I ain't stoppin' ya,_ he says, crossing his arms behind his head and staring up into the perfectly blue sky.

 

Carol is quiet for a moment and he can feel her eyes on him. Even without looking he can perfectly picture her frown. _Well, join me anytime,_ she quips then, rising to her feet.

 

_Ya wish,_ he mutters, knowing fully well that nothing is going to get him to put more than his damn feet into the water.

 

_Maybe I do._

 

He looks up at her quiet words and regrets that decision instantly.

 

She stands there in front of him, her flimsy shirt on the ground. For a moment, his eyes fix on her breasts, hidden but not hidden under a black bikini top. Her taut stomach is pale, her freckled arms and chest a few shades darker. She shimmies out of her jeans shorts, her long legs stretching on and on and Daryl swallows when she turns, the elegant slope of her neck hidden under her auburn curls, and he can't help but stare at her ass for a second.

 

_Stop,_ he mutters way too late, but she turns around halfway to the water and smiles at him anyway. He doesn't want to stare like a creep and so he watches the sky instead, but suddenly his thoughts are too preoccupied to enjoy the deep blue.

 

 

That night, he touches himself for the first time in over a year. Long after the old man has passed out he shoves a chair against his door, crawls into bed. The window is open, allowing a mild breeze into his stuffy room.

 

His hand slips past the waistband of his boxers almost shyly. It's been so long.

 

When he curls a hand around himself he chokes back a cry, freezing instantly to listen for any sounds.

 

 

He's done by the fifth stroke, eyes closed but his vision filled with creamy skin he'll never get to touch.

 

* * *

 

It takes her two weeks to talk him into going swimming. Two weeks filled with insistent questions and little tugs on his hand, two weeks of her body bared for him to _not_ stare at. All creamy, freckled skin that gleams in the sun.

 

 

Eventually, he gives in. He can't really deny her anything for long and it's so damn hot that the promise of cool water on his skin is actually quite tempting.

 

 

Only it's cold as fuck for some reason and he hisses so loudly when he steps in that Carol starts giggling - already submerged far enough for the surface of the water to curve around her breasts. The water is _cold_ , all right - but he's gotten quite good at not staring.

 

_Too cold for you?_ she asks with a grin and he narrows his eyes at her, feeling the water soaking into his boxers and the shirt he'd insisted on keeping on. She hadn't asked why, had made no comment at all. It doesn't matter how much he trusts her. Deep down, he has a feeling that she knows what he's hiding under the worn cotton. But he can't show her. Not here, not now.

 

He lingers there with the water halfway up his thighs, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. _Just go in,_ Carol tries to encourage him, her arms and legs swaying elegantly underwater. _Like ripping off a band aid._

 

Daryl ponders that for a moment. She's probably full of shit, but then again that's how she went in - just dove into the water like it's no big deal.

 

So, he does the same.

 

The moment he's engulfed he barks out a curse, his body tensing from the sudden cold. But then, quickly, the initial shock passes and it feels better than any cooled lemonade ever could. _Damn,_ he mutters, taking two steps forward until he can no longer feel the muddy ground under his feet. Carol grins at him, and it's almost like there's pride twinkling in her eyes. It makes him blush.

 

_See? Not that bad._ He nods a little sheepishly, allowing the water to lap at him. He almost wishes it could touch more bare skin, all his scars would be well hidden beneath the surface.

 

A devious look crosses Carols face then, that shimmer in her eyes when she's about to say something dirty - and damn is she good at that. Once, he might have thought of her as an angel, but those times have long passed.

 

_Your face is all red, I think that needs to cool down,_ she says matter-of-factly, swimming a little closer. He squirms, knowing fully well that it's not all because of the sun. _Don't want you getting a heat stroke._

 

He's confused for a second. _Wha- Fuck!_ he yelps, his question cut short when she splashes cold water at him with a giggle. _Carol!_ He spits some water from his mouth, running a hand over his face. His hair is sticking to his forehead now, obstructing his view of her. _Ya better watch out!_ he growls, determined to get his revenge.

 

The tone of his voice is dead serious and Carol's laughter dies in her throat. _Daryl, no!_ she warns, swimming backwards but not getting far before he returns the favor. _My hair!_ she cries, trying but failing to turn away when the splash of water hits her. _Daryl!_

 

The hair in question had been in a bun on top of her head, some stubborn curls loose and dangling in her face. Those are now just as plastered to her face as his own - and she stares at him with a fuming expression. As she swims towards him, Daryl suddenly feels bad for being childish enough to splash her back.

 

There must've been a reason for her to keep her hair away from the water and he just screwed that up.

 

_Sorry, didn't mean ta-_ he mutters, but before he can finish he's interrupted in the last way he thought possible. The last word he meant to say turns into a gasp when Carol suddenly presses her lips to his. They are warm, so incredibly soft, so gentle. Too taken aback by what's happening, Daryl doesn't respond, his eyes wide open. All he can see are _her_ eyes, closed and framed by long lashes and _fuck_ he's never seen all her freckles from up close before.

 

She pulls back then, keeping a foot of distance between them. There's ground beneath their feet again, and Daryl is grateful for it. Otherwise he probably would have drowned.

 

His heart beats a million miles per hour. But Carol looks crushed, her eyes cast downward. _Sorry, I didn't-_

 

_No,_ he interrupts her. The last thing he wants is for her to interpret his lack of a response as a lack of interest. Cause he's interested. Fuck, he wants nothing more than this. _I want- I mean, 's-_ he stutters, unable to articulate what he means.

 

He's too afraid to kiss her back, too. That would explain without words just how much he really wants this. With her. He wants it so badly that his fingers itch and his lips tingle.

 

A shy smile tugs at Carols lips then, and she leans in slowly. Doing what he can't.

 

This time when her lips meet his, Daryl allows his eyes to flutter shut. Her lips feel even softer without the moment of surprise, and she moves them against his so tenderly, coaxing a response from him easily.

 

He has no clue what he's supposed to do, just follows her lead and it feels so damn good that he can't be screwing it up completely. Her hands curl around his neck, maybe for leverage or maybe just because she wants to. Either way, it gives him the courage to move, too. One hand reaches up to cup her cheek, the other stays beneath the water to rest ever so slightly against her waist.

 

Under his touch, she feels surreal. Smooth as marble, soft as a flower petal, void of all flaws.

 

He drinks in the taste of her, the scent of her, and it fills his lungs and heart to the brim.

 

* * *

 

The summer passes in a dream-like blur. He gets up eagerly in the mornings, spends the days in the garage - inhaling knowledge as much as the comforting smell of motor oil and grease.

 

And after, he feels like he really stepped into a dream.

 

Kissing Carol becomes easier after a while. Feels more natural, but always as exciting as that first time. He gets better at responding, braver in initiating.

 

Just a few months ago, he never would have believed he'd want to be this close to someone, to be this vulnerable. But it comes easily with her, especially when she's so happy and soft and sweet. Always tasting of cherries and peaches and _her_.

 

He still can't believe she wants him like this when he sees so little in himself that is desirable. But she never hesitates to press a quick kiss to his lips, to kiss the corner of his mouth when he smiles, to trace the seam of his lips with her tongue when theirs bodies are pressed flush against each other under the cool water. Some days, she kisses him awake when he drifts off into a light sleep under the summer sun, straddling his stomach with a wicked grin on her lips.

 

Lost in their own little world, it's the best damn feeling in the world.

 

* * *

 

At home, it's a whole different story. He barely spends any time there anymore, avoiding his father as much as she can - sleeping in the bed of the truck instead of inside some nights. Anything to avoid getting caught up in one of his violent outbursts.

 

 

But one night, just shy of a week before school starts again, he can't run in time. The whole day has been a stormy mess, wind and rain lashing down from the sky. There'd been no other choice but to sleep in his room.

 

Exhausted from a hard day's work, he fell asleep quickly. But it doesn't last for long.

 

At first, he's too hazy to understand what is happening. Faintly realizes that the slam of the door and the rough hands pulling him up aren't a dream. That the words being thrown at him are real. In the darkness, he can only make out his father's silhouette and his ears are ringing from the clash of the door and the blood rushing in his veins.

 

He can hear what the bastard is saying, just enough to understand later what brought this on. What made the old man smash his half-empty beer bottle over his head.

 

_Got yaself a job, huh?_ The pain from the impact petrifies Daryl for a moment.

 

_Didn't think ya had to share any of 'em bucks?_ Cold beer drips from his hair along with something thicker and warmer, seeping into his shirt, the sheets, everything.

 

_Where's the damn money?_ The hands around his arms squeeze tight enough to bruise, and Daryl finally drags himself out of his petrified state. Adrenaline shoots through his veins, masking the pain long enough for him to reach out blindly and knock his father backwards. He stumbles but holds on, nails digging into Daryl's skin, breaking it.

 

Daryl barely notices.

 

He's never been able to fight back before, but now when his father raises a hand to strike he strikes first, a deft punch to the face, a loud groan and a sickening crunch and then his father stumbles backwards, arms flailing, falling. Falling.

 

His head hits the desk on the way down and there he lays, immobile on the linoleum floor.

 

Daryl towers over him, stars obscuring his vision. Then, slowly, panic begins to set in. It pumps furiously through his veins _thud thud thud_ and he doesn't even stop for a minute to think before he bolts out of the door and into the rainy night.

 

He runs and runs, his bare feet raw against the wet asphalt, view obscured by the rain and the darkness. He runs without destination, barely able to breathe. Runs and runs until he comes to a stuttering halt in front of her house. There's no light burning anymore, and he has no clue how late it is, how early it might already be. All he knows is that she once told him he could always come to her if he needs to. _If you need to._ She'd said that with so much heaviness wearing her down that he figured she knew exactly what she was offering him. A sanctuary. A refuge.

 

He climbs the slippery branches of the tree in front of the house with trembling limbs. Is barely strong enough to pull himself up. In front of her window, he pauses. Wondering if he's making the right decision. But he's already done so much wrong this night, what harm can it still do? All he hopes is that nobody saw him climbing up here. The last thing he needs is for people to think he's breaking in. It's what everybody expects of him anyway.

 

Softly, he knocks on her window. Once. Twice. A dim light is switched on behind the curtains and when they are drawn open, Carol stands there with a confused expression that quickly turns into horror. Event through the glass, he can hear her gasp.

 

_Oh God._ Her voice breaks when she pulls open the window, holding out one hand to help him climb through the window. Despite the heat that still lingers outside, Daryl shivers as he stands there in her pretty room with the soft pillows and nice furniture and the scent of vanilla in the air. Carol quickly shuts the window, rushes to him, her hands hovering over his face.

 

A tear spills over, trails down her cheek, and he watches its descent - wishing his presence here could have conjured a smile instead of all this sadness.

 

She doesn't say anything after that. Just sits him down in a chair and quietly slips out of the room - returns with towels and a first aid kid, with dry clothes. He peels off his wet ones without hesitation - whatever secret still remained is now bared for her to see anyway, so all the other proof that has piled up on his skin over the years makes no more difference. The new clothes feel like heaven on his skin after he's toweled it dry. All the while, Carol sits on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap. Occasionally wiping away a silent tear.

 

After, she tends to his wound with a tender touch. Cleans it, covers it with gauze. Her fingertips are soft where they trail over his cheek, his temple, clearing off the blood that the rain hasn't quite managed to wash away.

 

He doesn't tell her what happened. What he might have done. Doesn't want to involve her in any of it - then again, he already has. Maybe, he's just another selfish bastard. But she doesn't make him feel that way. Just makes him feel warm and safe, and when she slips into bed and lifts the thin blanket, he slips in beside her like it's where he's meant to be. Her body molds itself around his, all creamy skin that's warm to the touch. His head comes to rest against her chest where her heart thuds evenly, and her hands cradle him there, fingers sifting through his hair.

 

She doesn't say a word when his tears begin to soak into her shirt.

 

 

He wakes just as the sun rises outside, bathing the room in a rosy glow. Carol is fast asleep by his side, so warm and soft that he just want to nuzzles into her further. But he can't.

 

There's something he needs to do, somewhere he needs to be. He needs to make _sure_.

 

Quietly, he slips out of bed, immediately missing the feeling of being in her arms. She sighs softly at the loss, turning onto her side. So peaceful.

 

Careful not to wake her, Daryl peels off the clothes she'd given him. He folds them neatly over the back of a chair and puts on his own. They have dried over night, but feel stiff and uncomfortable compared to the warm softness he'd felt before.

 

_Don't._

 

The soft voice startles him a little and he turns just as he pulls his shirt over his head. Carol is still laying on her side, one hand delicately placed on the pillow next to her head, her eyes open and pleading. _Don't go back,_ she whispers.

 

He swallows, adjusting his shirt. With a sigh, he steps over to the bed. _I gotta,_ he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. She's so _warm_.

 

_You don't have to._ Her voice is too sleep-riddled for much determination, but the look in her eyes is sincere. Sadly, he shakes his head. Rests his hand on her cheek for a sweet moment before reluctantly stepping away.

 

 

The sky bleeds red when he walks back to his place, the soles of his bare feet aching. But he pushes the pain away, focuses on the remnants of Carol's warmth he still feels.

 

Her words echo in his mind. _You don't have to._

 

 

He lingers by the front door for a while, afraid of what he'll find inside. Afraid that the old man is still where he left him, lifeless on the ground. Afraid he ruined everything. Afraid he'll end up as just another Dixon behind bars.

 

But when he pushes the door open, the old bastard is sitting on the couch. His face doesn't give away any emotions and he doesn't say anything. Just stares at him. A penetrating, deep stare that tells Daryl more than enough.

 

 

His room looks like a battle field. Drawers emptied on the floor, his mattress turned over, books dragged from the shelf, clothes strewn all over the place.

 

But he knows his father found nothing, and he never felt better about having hidden all the money he saved over the years in a safer place than under the bed a while ago.

 

Maybe not all is lost.

 

Maybe Carol is right.

 

Maybe one day soon, he _won't_ have to go back.

 


	4. you're my wonderwall

When school starts again, everything feels different somehow. Even though it's all the same - the people, the school, the teachers - there is an underlying sense of finality to it. The knowledge that next year, they will all go their own ways, stray out into the world. It's not just another year to plow through. It's the last year.

 

And there are so many decisions to make.

 

 

 

Carol makes it all easier. The same way she's always done. Effortlessly, she lifts the weight off his shoulders with a smile, a laugh, a quirk of her lips. None of that has changed, but other things have. The way she curls her fingers around his when they sit in their spot by the tool shed, the warmth of her when she leans into his side, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder. The rush of every kiss she gives him, of every kiss she allows him to give her.

 

It all feels right and natural even though it still terrifies him. Every ounce of insecurity inside of him roars whenever he leans in to press his lips to hers, when he dares to curl his hands around her waist, her neck, when he nuzzles her throat with his nose. She always smells so damn good, cherries and vanilla and summer. Like a cool breeze on a humid day, like a drop of water in a drought.

 

What they have feels precious and fragile, and yet so strong at the same time. Carrying all his weight and yet threatening to turn into stardust in the storm.

 

* * *

 

He imagined it so many times. Being with her like this.

 

The reality of it feels different. Less hazy. Rougher. Harsher. Warmer. Softer. More beautiful. It feels different. So different.

 

 

Carol's lips quiver with the whisper of his name, her long, bare legs wrapped low around his hips. Her skin _so_ smooth. He is pressed against her just right, all warm, wet heat and his own pulsing flesh. Every breath he takes stutters in tune with his heart, and he digs his fingers deeper into the blanket beneath them for more leverage.

 

_Daryl,_ she breathes again, tilting up her hips, sliding herself along his length and it draws a groan deep from his chest. His head falls down, forehead resting against her chest, his lips just barely brushing over the swell of a perfect breast. The weight of them had felt so warm in his hands, and he can still feel Carol shuddering when he'd dared to brush his thumb over a rosy pink nipple. He wants to do it again and again, make her face and neck flush in that cherry red he adores so much. But if he lingers now they'll never get further than this, all his muscles coiled tight already.

 

_Please._ Her arms are wrapped around his middle, hands splayed on his back. Soft fingertips graze a scar here and there, but she doesn't linger. She doesn't avoid them, either. The tenderness of her touch - something he has never known - nearly takes his breath away.

 

_Don't wanna hurt ya,_ he mutters against her skin, pressing a kiss to her breastbone. Resting his weight on his right forearm, he slips the other hand up to cup her cheek, sifting his calloused fingers through her silky hair. Her body melts against him with her every breath, with every tilt of her hips, with every brush stroke of her hand against the soiled canvas of his back.

 

_You won't hurt me,_ she whispers. _You can't._

 

He'd tried to make sure of that. Had kissed a trail from her lips down her throat, down down down until he reached her breasts. Had tasted them, nibbled at them. Had slipped his hand between her legs with a red face and stuttering heart. She'd helped to guide him, steering his hand over soft, delicate flesh. Everything had been so warm, so sweet, and _God_ the sounds she'd made. The moan of his name when he slipped a finger into her. The way her back arched off the ground when he'd circled a spot she'd shown him. He barely had a clue what to do, never really found a rhythm but eventually, she'd gone rigid in his arms, her body lifting up towards his touch and she'd been so tight around his fingers, so warm, her breath sweet and damp when she kissed him breathless.

 

But he's still afraid, even now when he can feel her slick against his own arousal. She wants this, as difficult a thought that is to believe. And fuck, does he want her.

 

_Tell me if I hurt ya,_ he says, reaching down between them over the creamy, quivering plane of her stomach, curling a hand around himself. His touch alone nearly sends him over the edge, and he pauses for a moment. Coming all over her stomach isn't how he wants this to go. Carol doesn't stress him, just looks up at him with kiss-swollen lips and the stars reflecting in her eyes.

 

Taking a deep breath, Daryl presses himself into her, just an inch at first. Her name is a choked cry when he feels her around him, tight and warm, and her small whimper is enough to send white-hot heat through his veins. But he holds back, squeezes his eyes shut and swallows the lump in his throat.

 

Carol's legs around his hips pull him closer, and he slides into her smoothly, all the way until his pelvis is flush with hers.

 

_Shit,_ he hisses, fingers curling so roughly into the ground that his knuckles turn white. _Carol-_

 

_Shh,_ she breathes, reaching up to cup his cheek in her palm. _It's all right._ Her thumb brushes over his cheekbone, so gentle. It feels surreal to be inside of her, to be surrounded by her like this.

 

She leans up to seek his lips then, and Daryl whimpers slightly the moment her tongue traces the seam of his lips, slipping inside. His hips buck into her against his will, drawing a surprised gasp from Carol that makes him freeze.

 

_Ya hurtin'?_ he asks, lips still touching her.

 

But she shakes her head softly, smiling. _No, it feels good._ He shudders when her hand finds his hips, pushing him even further into her. _You feel good._

 

_Carol,_ he croaks. Her words send fire through his veins, and he can feel himself starting to fall apart when she hooks her legs higher on his hips, rocks herself against him in a delicate rhythm that shifts him deep inside her.

 

She moans at that, her head thrown back and her damp lips parted. _Move, please?_ she whispers and he can't hold back. Slowly, still afraid of hurting her, Daryl pulls out a little, no more than a few inches, before gliding back inside.

 

The pressure of her around him feels too good, makes his mind hazy and he moves into her over and over in erratic thrusts that lack all rhythm. He wishes he could do better, long, slow, filling strokes but his body is chasing release and he doesn't have much control left. _Shit, I can't-_ he groans, pressing a sloppy kiss to Carol's thrumming pulse point.

 

Her breathy moans only drive him further to the edge. _Let go,_ she whispers, rocking against him and that's too much, more than he can take.

 

His hips pump into her a few more times, driving himself as deep as he can go until he thinks he's drowning in her. Then, his body goes rigid, the grunt of her name muffled in the crook of her shoulder as he spills inside of her.

 

Carol eases him through it while his body stutters and trembles, the mild breeze suddenly chilly on his sweat-slicked skin. Her hands sift through his hair, down his spine, the cradle of her thighs warm against his hips. He pulses a few more times, sucking in ragged breaths before he looks up at her.

 

_Sorry,_ he mutters hoarsely. _Couldn't-_

 

Carol silences him with a kiss that tastes sweeter than any other they have shared.

 

Eventually, he pulls away from her, rolls onto his back. The stars are bright in the dark sky, illuminating the clearing around the lake. Carol curls up against his side, her legs tangling with his.

 

When he moves his arm around her, it comes naturally and she falls into place like a puzzle piece. Her soft, warm lips press a kiss to his chest, fingers trailing feather-lightly over his heart.

 

_I love ya,_ he whispers, the words spilling from his lips before he can hold them back. Carol looks up at him with a shimmer in her pretty eyes and a flush spreading down to her chest.

 

Her answer is hidden in the kiss she gives him, languid, deep and slow, and there's no need for more words when she trails a hand down his quivering stomach to curl clever fingers around his length. Easily coaxing him back to life, she slips down, straddles him the way she has done so many times before. It had been innocent then, but there's little innocence in the way she sinks down on him now. Her bottom lip drawn between her teeth, her breasts in his hands.

 

He always thought it was cheesy, but in this moment it truly feels like they are _one_.

 

* * *

 

Over the winter, Carol makes a habit of showing up at his window unannounced. Snowflakes melting in her hair, her cheeks flushed.

 

She warms her hands against his chest, curls up against him on his bed. Socked feet freezing against his calves.

 

With a chair shoved under the door handle, this is still as much as he dares to do with his father around. A stolen kiss here and there, hands entwined, that's all he allows. Too afraid to open himself up in here, with his father just a few feet away.

 

 

It's a day in early February, the window cracked open to let the late winter sun into the room. Carol is curled around him, her breath warm against the side of his throat. His hand traces the ridges of her spine, and she sighs each time he reaches her tailbone, hips pressing into his side just barely.

 

_What are you going to do?_ she whispers, her own hand covering his heart.

 

He'd almost fallen asleep to the soothing rhythm of her breathing and the song of the first birds outside, and her question startles him a little. _Hmm?_ he hums sleepily, shifting his weight against his thin mattress.

 

_After school,_ Carol explains, nudging her nose against his collarbone and burrowing further into him. Almost like she's afraid he'll slip away.

 

The thought makes him sad, the uncertainty of their future haunting him like a ghost. _Oh,_ he sighs, trying to make sense of the sudden melancholy that fills him. _Cars,_ he replies, his free hand seeking out hers. Holding on.

 

Carol huffs a sweet laughter, the dampness of her breath against his neck sending a shiver down his spine, goosebumps erupting over his arms. _I know that,_ she teases.

 

His mouth twitches into a smile she can't see. _Well, talked to Dale an' he said I should do a program. Get a certificate an' all that._ It seems scary and out of reach, but he'd gladly accepted some of the textbooks Dale had given him, reading them all, trying to prepare himself - knowing he might end up just another failure. _He said he knows some guy who might take me on after._

 

Carol leans back to look at him, a few loose curls framing her face. _Out of town?_ she asks, eyes briefly fluttering shut when he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

 

He nods, anxiety settling in the pit of his stomach. At the moment, it quenches the excitement of having an actual possibility.

 

The smile that Carol gives him is somber, almost like a cracked porcelain doll. _That sounds great. Why haven't you mentioned it before?_

 

Her fingers still trace over his heart, her eyes following the delicate pattern.

 

_Ain't sure 's gonna work out yet,_ Daryl explains, feeling his throat all tied up. He doesn't want to talk bout this anymore, about the future. For all the good it might hold he knows it will come at a great prize and an even greater loss. _How 'bout you?_ he asks, needing to ask this one question.

 

Carol sighs, curling herself into his side again. _I don't know,_ she says quietly, her face and all its riddles hidden from him. _We'll see._ He nods, resuming the path of his hand against her spine. _Depends, I guess._

 

He understands, deep own, what she means. But he pushes that truth away. _Hmm,_ he hums instead, pressing a kiss to the fiery crown of her head.

 

* * *

 

His father doesn't mention the money again. And after the incident, he doesn't try to lay a hand on him again, either.

 

Instead, he hardly acknowledges Daryl anymore. It makes him wonder if the bastard is delusional enough to think that this bothers him. In truth, he's glad for it. Any other child might be hurt, but he never cared a dime for the man. Not in a long time, anyway.

 

 

After a while, the old man starts buying less food - silently telling Daryl that his time in this poor excuse of a house is up. Daryl couldn't agree more, is already counting down the days until graduation. A year quickly turns into months, months into weeks.

 

 

Sometimes, though, Daryl is haunted by old memories. Dust is settling on them in some hidden corner of his brain, but some days they lift their tired heads. Memories of when his momma was still alive. Of when he was so little. Memories of a holiday spent on a front porch, watching the fireworks on his daddy's shoulders. Watching his momma press a kiss to his brother's forehead. Her sweet voice telling him it's time for bed, his father spinning him around.

 

Feeling light and free and loved.

 

There's only a handful of such memories left and maybe there were never more in the first place. But they dampen his hatred towards this place and make him look at the old man with a hint of sadness tightening his chest.

 

This was never truly _home_ , but it was home. It's all he's ever had and leaving it behind hurts. But it hurts less than staying here would. It's an unwelcome pain that he can't shake.

 

The pain of leaving the familiar behind, no matter how poisonous.

 

* * *

 

With just a few weeks left until graduation, everything falls into place.

 

His grades are decent enough for him not to worry about failing the exams, and still, he spends every free moment with his head buried in a book. What he has, what he fought so hard for, he will not take any that for granted.

 

He got accepted for a program up in Virginia, is going to get the certificate he needs. Dale managed to hook him up with a guy up there who owns a shop, basic repairs but focusing on bikes. He'll get to do some actual on the job training, has already found a tiny one bedroom apartment to live in. His own place.

 

He has a car of his own now, too. Dale had found it for him on a junkyard out of town. It had no life left in it and he got it for a dime.

 

_You fix it up, it's yours,_ Dale had told him. And so he'd worked on it day and night, the guys at the shop eager to lend him a helping hand. Most of the money he'd saved paid for the spare parts but it was worth it.

 

It's his now, running smoothly.

 

While some of his fellow students are sweating over colleges and bills and trips abroad and finding roommates, he feels like he has his life in order for the first time.

 

 

Carol is there to celebrate every milestone with him, pride shimmering in her eyes, euphoria becoming a taste when she kisses him, lets him lift her off her feet and twirl through the air because he can't contain how damn _happy_ he feels.

 

It's not something he's used to and he handles the fragile emotion with great care.

 

But in the palm of Carol's hand, it's safer than it could be anywhere else.

 

 

Still, time is passing in a blur and he knows, deep down, that there aren't many grains left in the hourglass that he turned the day his mother died.

 

The day Carol entered his life.

 

And when the day comes and the last grain falls, he's not ready.

 

* * *

 

Neither of them wanted to go to prom. No matter how celebratory the overall mood was, it just wasn't the place either of them belonged to this night. Almost as if they both _knew_.

 

There's not a cloud in the sky, all the stars shining bright against the midnight blue. A soft breeze upsets the leafs around them, ripples the surface of the lake. The moon – big and round – bathes them in silver light, Carol's skin glowing. She looks so damn beautiful, more beautiful than all the other girls could, clad in their ballgowns and elaborate hair and shimmering jewels. She's just Carol, long pale legs and freckled cheeks, auburn hair framing her head like a crown where she lays on the cool grass by his side.

 

Her sandals lay abandoned by the shore of the lake along with his boots. She is wearing a plain yellow sundress, one Daryl feels he has seen before. Even though he can't quite remember when or where, the sight of it fills him with a sense of nostalgia.

 

A question lingers on the tip of his tongue, one he has wanted to ask for weeks but never found the courage. His fingers twitch against the tickling grass, and his eyes are fixed on the blinking red light of a plane that crosses the sky above them. _Wanted ta ask if..._ he starts, his voice hoarse. Taking a deep, deep breath, he waits. Trying to find the right words to use. _Ya know- just wonderin' if ya wanna come with me?_

 

The apartment he's about to move into is tiny, but they could make it work. He'd _make_ it work. Would make the money to find them a better place. He would. He could. He wants to.

 

Carol sighs by his side, a quiet sound that the wind carries away. But he doesn't miss it. _I can't. I'm-_

 

_'s all right,_ he interrupts her, not wanting to hear the reason why. No means no, and it makes no difference why she said it. His heart feels heavy with a loss he wasn't ready for. _Don't matter._

 

_Daryl, listen to me,_ she insists, turning onto her side to face him. A delicate hand rests on top of his, squeezing slightly. _I can't,_ she croaks, her voice breaking. _You know I can't. You know why._

 

_No,_ he spits instantly, panic surging through his veins. Staring up at the sky, he turns his hand, grasps hers tightly enough for their fingers to go numb. Carol doesn't even flinch.

 

_Yes, you do,_ she breathes, her voice as soft as honey. It melts away some of his fear even though he clings to it like a lifeline. In her hushed words, he can hear one of those smiles he loves so much. _You've known all along._

 

His eyes burn with tears he furiously blinks away. _Stop,_ he pleads with a hitch in his voice, turning his head. Her face is just a mere inch away from his, the warmth of her breath dampening his lips. _Don't._

 

He has never seen a smile tainted with so much sadness. His own reflects in her blue eyes, like cracked orbs that can no longer contain what he held onto for so long. _It's time._ She slips her hand from his grasp, rests it against his cheek to wipe away a stray tear. _It's time to move on. You have to let me go for that._

 

Bitter cold settles in his gut, and he can barely swallow the lump in his throat. _Can't lose ya._ He shudders against her, the tip of her nose nudging his softly, soothingly. There's reassurance to her touch, to the way she feathers her thumb over his cheekbone. It's familiar, and yet it makes the inevitable loss of her so much worse.

 

_You have to. There's no other way. Gentle_ fingers ghost over the shell of his ear, curl into the strands of his hair at the base of his skull. _It can't always be like this._ Soft lips brush his as light as the wing of a butterfly, not a kiss but oh so close and he just wants to breach this minuscule gap between them and kiss her, stop her from talking, hold on to her. _So... Say it,_ she whispers instead, her body inching closer in contradiction to her words. _Let go. Say it and let go._

 

Daryl desperately fights the urge to shut his eyes. He wants to see her, drink her in. Every freckle, every shadow cast by her eyelashes, the scattering of different blues in her eyes. _'m scared,_ he admits, his entire body trembling against hers. He can't hide that from her, never could hide anything, really.

 

_Of what?_ Her question tastes like cherries on his lips and he inches forward just a little, enough for the briefest, most fleeting kiss.

 

_Can't say it,_ he rasps, pressing another kiss to her lips and she doesn't resist. _Ya gonna disappear._

 

Her hand cradles his head, stills his mournful kisses. _It's all right,_ she reassures him, a smile curling her lips. _You'll be all right. Just say it. Please._ There's hope and p ride mingled with sadness and he knows she's right. That this is up to him. _You know it._

 

He looks at her for another minute, amazed by her the same way he always has been. The words are ready to be spoken, and he's surprised that he is ready to admit them to himself after all this time.

 

_Y'ain't real,_ he says eventually, his voice steady, clear. Determined. _Never were._ Carol's lips quiver, tears welling in her eyes, trailing down ivory cheeks and soaking into the rich, green grass. He can taste them on his lips. _Y'are just in my head._ A whisper now. His strength already fading. _Y'ain't real._

 

He surrenders. Allows his eyes to drift shut, freezing the image of her in his mind. But she surprises him, her lips pressing to his before she pulls away enough to speak. _I was real to you._

 

He wants to tell her that he loves her again the way he did that night, but he can't bring himself to do it, not anymore. Their time is up and there's no more use for those words – they don't mean a thing now.

 

_Why ya still here?_ he asks instead, daring to open his eyes again. She's right there against him like she belongs nowhere else and God how he wishes that was the truth.

 

_Because you're the one who has to let go,_ she explains, turning onto her back again to gaze up at the stars. He does the same, mourning the loss of her warm, tender touch. Their breathing is even and quiet, the night undisturbed. After a while, the stars above become too bright and Daryl closes his eyes, tears still burning behind his lids.

 

When he opens his eyes again, she is gone. All that remains is him. Him, and the memories he invented for himself.

 

 

Later that night, when he walks back home, he takes a detour. To Carol's house.

 

No.

 

To the row of abandoned houses by the grove, overgrown with wild ivy, windows shattered over the years, wood and stone weathered by the passing of time. They'd been empty as long as he can remember but something about them tells him they were beautiful once before they were abandoned.

 

He wonders why nobody ever fixed them up. Why they are withering away.

 

With a heavy heart, he looks up at the window, almost hidden now that the large tree carries leafs. No light has burned there in decades.

 

Not even that of a candle.

 

* * *

 

When he leaves town two weeks later, it feels more surreal than Carol ever did.

 

 

The few belongings he has are easily packed into a handful of cardboard boxes, stacked away in the car trailer Dale let him borrow for the weekend. But even with his crappy furniture it's not even half-full. It's a sad sight, really. Then again, his new place won't have much room for more.

 

The old man has been gone since last night, and Daryl doesn't give a shit that he didn't bother to say goodbye. It's easier this way.

 

 

He passes the town sign with a sense of dread and excitement alike.

 

Every now and then, he turns his head to the passenger seat, almost expecting a head full of red hair, pink lips humming along to the song on the radio.

 

But it's empty.

 

* * *

 

Even though his new place is tiny, it feels excessive to him. It's overwhelming. _His._

 

He stands in the middle of the room for a good long while, breathing in the fresh air that floods the room from the open window. The place is worn but clean, the walls a plain white and the wooden floor littered with plenty of dents and scratches. The small kitchen area is outdated but functioning, and the same is true for the tiny bathroom.

 

It's his, and that's the best feeling in the world.

 

After a while, he gets to work. Wipes the sweat off his brows from carrying everything inside by himself and begins to move furniture around and unpack boxes. Even though he doesn't own much, he's busy for hours, putting things down here and there and trying to figure out where everything belongs.

 

 

The sky outside is beginning to turn into a hazy shade of gold when a knock on the door interrupts him. With furrowed brows, Daryl sets down the still packaged set of plates he bought last week, and he makes his way to the door, avoiding half-emptied boxes on the way, not knowing what to expect.

 

The hinges make an odd sound when he pulls the door open, something he's going to have to fix as soon as-

 

All thoughts are silenced when Daryl takes in the sight of the person who knocked. Standing there in the hallway.

 

A girl around his age, long legs and pale skin and auburn hair that's cropped short, curling a little around her ears.

 

_Hi, I'm Carol. I live next door._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... do you hate me now?
> 
> I hope not. 
> 
> Kudos to everybody who figured this out beforehand. I hoped it would come as a surprise but that it would make sense looking back at the story. I hope it does. This was interesting to write, trying to make it work without making it too obvious that Carol only existed in Daryl's head. Every now and then, I tried to leave a clue. The song is probably the biggest one and I hesitated to even use it, afraid that some of you might be aware of the song's meaning and instantly understand what the story is about. 
> 
> Now, I hope the ending is hopeful rather than angsty, and that it makes up for the sort-of-loss.


End file.
